


scarecrow holds the hourglass

by westhouse



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Demonic Possession, Gen, M/M, One-Sided Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-09-01 05:46:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16759126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westhouse/pseuds/westhouse
Summary: They suspect it is a murderer. It is something much, much worse. for @swamp-deity





	scarecrow holds the hourglass

John Watson did not consider himself a particularly superstitious man, instead leaning skeptic at the best of times and cynic at the worst. Even so, he felt a lingering sense of unease about the fact that Holmes had taken him into the catacombs beneath London. They were meant now to be beneath a bridge—which bridge exactly had been utterly obscured by Holmes’ unwelcome manic joy about this venture—and the anxiety had not improved, but rather compounded with time.

The place smelled thickly of wet stone and mud, though at least for the sake of the moisture he was not choking on dust in the abandoned maze. Holmes, a step ahead at all times, carried with him an oil lamp that burned brightly in the pitch darkness. Even its light couldn’t penetrate to the end of the hallways half the time. “If I’m right in believing this is where our man has holed himself up, we’ll be seeing the signs any moment,” the detective said quietly, but in his voice there was a great anticipation which would not wane even in the dourest of settings.

“And should he have done so,” Watson griped, squinting at his friend and frowning slightly, “do we _want_ to find him here? The things he’s done…” And still the images of these past crime scenes flashed through his head: men and women torn to shreds as if by wild animals, organs removed and stolen away, bones as well. He couldn’t quite believe a single man had done it all, and more than that, couldn’t ascertain the purpose of his actions. Holmes had guessed some kind of ritual activity, something dastardly and deluded. “I should prefer not to be his next victim, that’s all.”

“Hold a moment,” Holmes said suddenly, and for a moment Watson worried that he was about to stop just to shut him up. But instead he paused to bring his lantern closer to a wall of the place, and its light highlighted precisely what Watson did not want to see. Staining the bricks was a long, wet streak of blood.

“It’s still wet,” Watson said, staring at it and swallowing thickly.

“Keep near me,” said Holmes.

It would be in their best interests to stay quiet from here, they knew, and so onward they crept with Holmes in the lead. The blood continued, a horrendous trail leading them—where? _Somewhere,_ certainly, but somewhere Watson was not particularly keen to discover. His mind could turn only to the worst case scenario. They were either about to find the next body, or they had been lured into a trap… but what man could outsmart Sherlock Holmes? Flawed as the detective was, he was also brilliant, and his fallibility had rarely been exploited by any villain they had run across. Whoever this man they were after was, he must have been truly evil, or simply truly insane.

The first shadow he saw, he dismissed as a trick of the light. The lantern’s glow seemed not to reach quite as far with every step they took, and though he was hardly afraid of the dark, there was something in the mind which made you see shadows move and spectres form in a place like this. It was nothing he would mention to Holmes, nothing he’d bother him with. After all, he had been reprimanded sternly for such irrelevant and elementary worrying before. But then there was a second shadow, and a third, and finally—

“Holmes,” he said carefully, quietly, “I’m worried that we are being followed.”

“Nonsense,” said Holmes, and then the lantern suddenly went out.

All around them the darkness closed in until it seemed physical and suffocating, and an acrid smell hit the air. It was not quite natural, erring more on the side of _chemical_ in the way some of Holmes’ experiments tended to be. More than that, Watson felt suddenly they were not alone. And they were not in good company, either.

Again, he said, “ _Holmes,_ ” and tried to meet with his friend in the darkness. After a second of hopeless grasping he held his arm and was immediately tugged closer, until the two were standing shoulder-to-shoulder. He gripped Holmes’ slim wrist tightly and breathed in the vague smell of cigar smoke that surrounded him, wishing that would stave off the stench which had overtaken them both.

“Two against one,” growled an unfamiliar voice—one which was somehow layered upon itself, echoing without echoing. “Oh, now I _am_ scared.”

“Name yourself,” Holmes demanded, sounding unfazed but stiff by Watson’s side. There was a certainty even to his terror which could have brought Watson peace if not for the fact that he was caught in layered fear at the moment. He couldn’t see a thing, nor ascertain where the stranger’s voice was coming from. They sounded impossibly close but could have well been down the tunnel a ways.

“Careful. You know the power in that,” it warned, and then seemingly from right beside them, hissed, “Sherlock Holmes.” Watson jumped, pulling the detective in as if to ensure he was still there, and glared into the darkness intensely. They would do well to back away, he decided, and began to do so, pulling Holmes with him until his back met the wall. _Shit._

Holmes covered Watson’s hand with his own and gave it a short squeeze before letting go and stepping forward slightly, still not completely away from him. “So you know who I am, then. It’s a decent start. Let me be very clear,” he said, “we are here to speak with you, not to play fools for whatever deceit you intend. You’re the Devil of Savile Row, aren’t you?”

It seemed that several things happened then, not all at once but in such quick succession that Watson couldn’t put them in order. The lantern flickered back on, the fire returning out of seemingly thin air, and the voice said, “No.” Holmes’ arm broke from him as if he were pulled away sharply, but too quickly to grab him back. “ _You_ are.” And then, with the lantern fallen to the ground and still glowing brightly, Watson watched in the darkness of the tunnels as Holmes—his Holmes—turned and witnessed him with dark, unseeing eyes.

“And I fear no one will believe the truth,” stated Holmes, and though it was certainly his voice, it too echoed like the disembodied growls from before. It was inhuman. Inhuman, unbelievable, and yet at the moment so completely the truth that Watson could not bear to debate it. Not while he was afraid, and certainly not while he was _furious_. Whatever this was, whatever trick or beast, had no right to mess around in Sherlock’s mind. He was about to say that, about to give the damned thing a piece of his mind, when it added, “Not once I’m done with you, anyway, Dr. Watson.”

Perhaps the words themselves did not scare him, but something else did, and his blood ran cold. He pressed himself against the back wall further, watching as Holmes took two steps toward him. He moved jerkily as if under flickering light, lacking the fluidity of a living thing. “What do you mean?” Watson forced out, trying to turn the fear in his voice into hatred.

“ _What do I mean_ ,” laughed Holmes mockingly, and the grin on his face was entirely alien, a crooked and sharp thing he had never seen before. He crept ever closer now until they were close enough Watson could again smell cigar smoke. How awful he would still look so much like himself now, when clearly not at all himself. “You are such a simple thing, dear John. Look at you. Following him… following _me_ here past midnight, all that trust and honesty.” It clicked its tongue, shook its head. “Did I ever request a dog? Or have you simply nowhere else to be?”

Mustering a great courage within himself, Watson forced out a chuckle. “You could do better,” he said bitterly. “The real Holmes has said worse to me during one of his moods.”

This made it angry, and with such haste the movement was undetectable, Holmes was upon him—pushing him into the wall and pinning him there with one slender hand coiled around his throat, pressing enough to hurt but not yet to choke. “Do you desire that I hurt you, Dr. Watson? That I tell you precisely what he thinks? You’re a fool. An idiot. You have loved this man for _months_ without a word, have thought only of him, watched him from afar and slept in his bed when he is absent, John Watson, you are _the_ monster,” it growled, and _now_ he was pressing. Blood began to drip from Holmes’ nose.

“He knows,” Watson forced out, gritting his teeth. “He knows. Doesn’t care. It isn’t his problem.” All the times he had realised Holmes was more than aware of his affections and simply leaving them alone for courtesy’s sake… all the nights spent wondering anyway. There were enough painful memories, but they were his. He was not going to let go of them nor let some _thing_ corrupt them.

“And now he will kill you. They will find you in pieces in this wretched place and know he did it, and know that he did it because you deserve nothing less. You will—” and then the body was coughing, his nosebleed having steadily gotten worse. It was progressing quickly, whatever was happening.

“You’re killing him,” Watson snapped now, pushing back against him. “You won’t get to stay long enough to take me. You’re _killing him_ !” Holmes’ grip broke and Watson grabbed for both of his shoulders, looking at him wild-eyed for any sign of life. Any sign of _him._ “You can go now and you can _run._ You can do whatever the hell you like so long as you do it away from here, away from London, because believe this: Sherlock Holmes is much stronger than you will ever be, and he will track you down, and he will find a way to kill you.”

Nothing on Holmes’ face, but the bleeding was only getting worse. From his mouth, now, crimson was dripping. But the thing didn’t speak and Holmes did not move, not even a bit, and he was _surely_ dying—Watson, gripping his coat, pulled him in and buried his face in his shoulder. _Do not fucking die on me, Sherlock Holmes. Don’t you dare._

It was only when he stopped shaking that he realised the lantern had stopped burning so brightly, that the flame had dulled to its previous strength and was only lighting the tunnel gently now. A moment later there was a gasp from Holmes, and then coughing, and his knees gave out beneath him as Watson struggled to keep him upright. Finally he gave in and let him down, holding his body against himself on the stone floor. The coughing continued a minute more before finally Holmes was quiet, shivering now and not letting up.

He would not speak for a time, for quite a long time. They would remain there for hours, Watson with his arms about him and whispering “I’m here, you’re alright, you’re alright, I’m right here…” until finally the shuddering stopped, calmed, and he helped him to his feet to leave the wretched place they had found.


End file.
